A Riddle
by tokyoblackbird
Summary: An introduction on my psychological analysis of the world's worst supervillain. You can't be born evil can you?


"Why does You-Know-Who, er, Voldmort want to go on a bloody rampage and kill people? I mean, it'd save us a lot of trouble if he decided to stop and take up a harmless hobby, like golfing or something."

Harry and Hermione turned from what they were doing and blinked at Ron's sudden interjection.

"What'd you say, Ron?" asked Hermione, who had been buried in a tome entitled "The Art of Hexing" and was comparing it to another, equally thick book entitled "Basic Defences Against Dark Magic."

"He asked why Voldemort likes killing people," repeated Harry. The dark-haired youth bore yet another bruise on his cheekbone. He had been practicing Apparition and had managed to collide into the doorknob. He was currently leaning against the battered wooden door, recovering.

Hermione sighed. "It's probably part of his psychology. I mean, Dumbledore says—er, said—that he more or less wants to be infamous in the wizarding world." She turned back to her books, smoothing back her frizzy brown hair.

"He could be an infamously good golfer," pressed the red-haired boy, sitting cross-legged on an unmade bed that belonged to Hermione.

"Voldemort's _evil_," explained Harry--quite eloquently, I daresay. "And besides, he chose to kill people like my mum and dad, so we've got to stop him before this gets out of control. He isn't going to be a golfer, no matter how hard you think about it."

"But Dumbledore…said we have to figure him out. I mean that's what you were doing with him in his office last year, remember? So, it can't hurt to consider the possibilities." He seemed rather peeved at their silence.

Actually, it was a fact that they were—and all the rest of the household—too busy studying to talk and enjoy their summer break. Now that the trio had decided they'd drop out of Hogwarts (for good reasons, of course) they were constantly studying hexes, charms, and an assortment of spells to track down the Death Eaters and their dark master. Needless to say, it was quite a silent affair.

"That's not a bad thought," said Hermione kindly, "but we've got a lot to do." Whether in school or out, Hermione always had a lot to do.

"Why don't you ask him when we meet him?" joked Harry, rising unsteadily to his feet. He stood and concentrated very hard at the spot beside Ron on the bed. He appeared wobbling mightily next to him, and grinned. "I just have to work on balance and then I can Apparate anywhere!"

Ron ignored Harry and said, "But Voldemort's human, too. Why would a guy like one of us _want_ to kill people?"

"He's not like one of us," said Hermione. "I don't think he's even human anymore. Do you expect a man who's split his soul seven times to still be human?"

"But before. Could he have _wanted_ to be evil ever since he was born?"

"You can never tell," replied Hermione darkly and that was the end to that conversation.

But you can. No one is _born_ evil. Once, those hard-hearted convicts and murderers—so icy cold and inhuman—once, they were wide-eyed children; confused, vulnerable to whatever the world should throw at them.

Yes, all of them.

Once, Voldemort was a man. Once, he was a child. Once, he was Tom. And though Dumbledore knew almost everything about Voldemort, he did _not_ know that much about Tom. He, great as he was, did not see three particular days of the Dark Lord's young life. And he couldn't have guessed how important those three days were. Three days and a little girl who died young by the name of Cyril Perch.

"Um…Hey. My name's Cyril. Who are you? I mean I've seen you around, but I don't exactly know who you are, you know?"

The boy looked up from his book with a wary glance and prepared to leave. " I _haven't_ seen you around," he replied crisply.

His unblinking dark eyes took in her tangled curls and round youthful face. She was young, perhaps eight or nine, far too child-like to deserve to be an orphan. But he tried not to waste pity on her. Orphans surrounded him. His pity would not help them.

"Of course not!" she said, "I'm new here! Well…pretty new anyway. So, what's your name?" She took a seat beside him on the stone short flight of stone steps in front of the ominous wooden door to the cold facility a hundred or so orphans were forced to call home.

He scowled briefly. "Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle." He did not like his name.

"That sounds nice," she said talkatively. "My name's not at all nice. Cyril Perch. It sounds like a command to a bird. 'Cyril, perch over there! Good bird!'" She had a very lively voice. He thought her name fitting, considering she had a voice like a sparrow's.

He did not say so, though, but returned to his book. She paused, waiting for him to say something.

He didn't.

"What are you reading?" she asked, after a while. A small girl clad in the ash gray tunic of the orphanage ran up the steps past them and pushed open the wooden door roughly. She had a bloody nose and was wailing, "Mrs. Cole! Mrs. Cole! Amy pushed me!" and drowned Cyril out.

"What are you reading?" she repeated, a little louder.

He held up the cover so she could see it.

"You're reading a book on snakes?" exclaimed the girl. His brows furrowed in annoyance. But instead of alluding to the possibility of him being wrong in the head--he was so sick of hearing that--she said, "That looks interesting. What's it about?"

"Why don't you read it yourself?" he asked, rather brusquely.

"I can't read," she said seriously. "I can't see well enough to make out the letters. There's something wrong with my eyes."

For the first time, Tom noticed her eyes. They were a milky gray, like her uniform, but otherwise quite ordinary. Yet, somehow, he felt--he didn't know how he did, but he did—that they weren't really focused clearly on him. And not in an ordinary, good way either.

"What's wrong with them?" he asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.

"I wouldn't know," replied the girl. Tom's face fell. "But I get awful dizzy sometimes."

"You shouldn't be out here then," he said curtly.

"Mrs. Cole wouldn't let me stay inside. She doesn't believe me when I tell her about my eyes. She thinks I want to get out of talking to the other kids because I'm new." She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it. "I wouldn't be _afraid_ to talk to them. But they don't look very nice, or smart. Especially that skinny boy…I think his name's Billy. He's not nice or smart at all! He's awful! But you're much better than the rest of them." She paused, squinting at him. "Yes. You look much specialer."

Tom raised an eyebrow. He did not show that he was pleased from her compliment. He was used to such things: the usual flattery to attempt to draw him closer, to try to _understand_ him, to try and fit him into the usual lonely orphan mold. He would not be like these people, ordinary and weak.

But coming from this frank, young girl, he—for the few times in his life—was confused. So he brushed the thought away and said, "What did Billy do to you?"

She grimaced, though it looked comical on her, and replied, "Billy Stubbs told everyone to stay away from me. He said I was stupid, but I'm not! I just can't see things well. And he stole the mouth organ my daddy gave me…before he…left. Daddy…he never got to teach me how to play it before he had to…go away."

The sight of Cyril, so small and crumpled, still unwilling to believe her parents dead sent an involuntary pang through Tom. He didn't want that. No, he couldn't start connecting to people. He knew, in the end, they'd leave him, leave him alone and hurt like his parents had. His mother had not loved him enough; she had died. His father did not care enough about him; he had not turned up at this orphanage in search of his only son. He could never make that mistake again, to hope _someone_ would be there for him. They wouldn't ever. People, they were disgusting creatures.

But that small voice in his mind--the one that had not spoken for oh so long—begged him to reconsider. Surely, little, innocent Cyril would not leave him like his contemptible parents. Surely she could be company, if not a friend. He would not be so pained to hear her cheerful chatter, to have her encouragement for all his ambitions.

Cyril sat beside him, a small, pale finger tracing swirls on the stone steps, not noticing the dilemma going on through his head. Tom hesitated, and smiled, perhaps the only true smile he had ever shown anyone after he had grown out of his newborn innocence. The smile that showed he was a human still, no matter how many stony casings of bitterness had enclosed his heart.

"I understand," he said to her. "I know how you feel."

Cyril shot him a delighted grin as Mrs. Cole came to the doorway above them. The skinny, harassed woman cast the odd pair a questioning look, but otherwise ignored them, calling, "Children! Line up and file into the restrooms and wash your hands! Dinner will be served in five minutes! Hurry now!"

A hundred or so dusty children silently formed two neat rows, one for girls and the other for boys. They each knew their place and no unnecessary jostling took place. Cyril gave a little wave, rubbing her temples, as she went to the very end of the girl's line. They pretended she did not exist, some whispering meanly to each other as Mrs. Cole ushered them in. Tom nodded stiffly in her direction, unsure, and found his place in the boys' line. Cyril smiled again, squinting terribly, and then her frail little self was lost in the crowd of gray.

Ten-year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle never saw Cyril Perch again.

Mrs. Cole announced the next day that Cyril had come down with a terrible diseases that had done away with her eyesight and thus, she was being sent to a different facility "for better care". Her smile was even more strained that usual.

The children never saw her leave, and no one had been able to say good-bye. Not that anyone had wanted to bid her farewell, though for two different reasons.

Tom sulked in his room the whole day, only coming out to vent his disappointment and…perhaps something else that he'd never admit. Sorrow.

When impertinent Billy Stubbs asked him if he was grieving for his _girlfriend_, he told him to shut up. The day after that, his bitterness broke through and he ordered Billy's beloved pet rabbit to hang itself from the rafter before Billy's horrified eyes. That, he found strangely satisfying.

He also took back Cyril's mouth organ.

The quiet, hopeful voice in the back of his head never spoke another word. And if it did, he did not listen to it.

He did not give it another chance again.


End file.
